Chương 196: B4. 6.2 - Strike Two

"Those jerks took note of your plate number or something," I said.

"They can't be harassing every car they meet, can they?"

"They remember us," Deen said with clenched jaws.

"Not us. Me. I'm sorry you have to experience this, Erind. If not for me—""Oh, shut up, Deen," I snapped, in a bad mood over my interrupted sleep. Adding to my annoyance was Deen suggesting that her beauty was the cause of this, implying that I wasn't beautiful enough. Not saying it wasn't true—it was. But she didn't need to wave her flag of superior genetics every chance she got. Deen stared at me, shocked at my reaction.

"It's not your fault they're jerks," I said, softening my tone.

"It's also not your fault they found us. I forbid you from blaming yourself for the actions of others." Deen weakly chuckled.

"Look who's ordering who now." High beams flooded into the car, turning the rearview mirror into a localized supernova. The bullshit bass didn't just vibrate the windows; it forced my heart to beat in tune with very questionable music. I leaned over the center console, squinting through the glare. It was the same lifted muscle truck from the freeway—the Douche Mobile. Was this my penalty for surviving the PCM, BID, and Corebrings yesterday?

The universe couldn't let the main character rest during a transition scene without throwing minor antagonists into the mix.

"They must've taken some shortcut we don't know," I said, "or ignored speed limits entirely. I'm leaning towards the latter."

"We ignore them." Deen's knuckles turned a pale, bloodless white against the steering wheel. The creaking metal made her ease up, exhaling as she unwrapped her fingers.

"You can't get that repaired without raising questions," I said, pointing at the steering wheel.

"Anyway, maybe we shouldn't ignore these guys. Or… we can… scare them."

"As much as I love that idea, I'm not letting you transform here, Erind. We're already in Barstow. People can see you." As if to drive home her point, three cars zipped past us on the opposite lane.

"If I do it quickly, I can—""These assholes will report that they saw Red Hood in Barstow." Deen's use of profanities meant she was really angry.

"We left La Esperanza for safety. Mostly, yours. You now want to attract BID agents our way?"

"So-sorry… I'm just angry at them for harassing you." I'd eventually succeed in convincing Deen to punish these bastards.

"Don't you think we should teach them a lesson?"

"I do. But I also think of our safety." Deen stepped on the gas. The pickup truck following us rapidly switched from its high beam headlights to low, as if they were trying to communicate with us in Morse Code. The constant honking that followed clarified that they were doing it to annoy us, not to share a secret message about hidden treasure in the desert.

"Nobody will believe that they saw Red Hood here," I said, hoping I didn't sound too eager.

"We can't let them continue doing this to us all the way to… I don't know where they're headed." These assholes should head to their rightful place, and that is six feet below the ground. They had bothered me more than enough. Only Deen was holding me back. Wouldn't want her to think that the Adumbrae inside me was taking over, egging me on to violence. If we were regular girls, this would be a very frightening experience.

This scenario was like one of those true-crime documentaries about women disappearing while on long stretches of an empty interstate. It was up to me to make sure these assholes never harass others ever again. Sounded noble, right? Would Deen buy this reasoning?

"They'll eventually tire of their games," Deen said.

"Less than ten minutes to Barstow Station. They'll leave us alone there."

"I hope so. We really can't predict what they'll do. Those guys are drunk, maybe even on drugs. What if they trash your car?"

"For their sakes, they shouldn't do that," Deen said in a chilling fashion. That should go on the trailer for this movie—the Deadly Road Trip. That sounds too generic. I'd think of a better title later. Dessert on the Desert? That could be the title if I bought ice cream at Barstow Station. Thoughts of sweet treats made thoughts of violence retreat. I could also go for something greasy and salty. I wanted to try eating a huge burger stacked high with several patties. The Douche Mobile stuck a few feet behind us.

If we sped up, it matched our speed. Deen slowed down, hoping that the frat boys would overtake us and fuck off. But they also decreased their speed. Commendable driving, assuming the driver was also drunk. These fuckers tailed us the entire way, continuing to honk their horns and flick their headlights. The squat silhouette of Barstow Station loomed beside the freeway off-ramp. Its red, white, and blue paint, along with a huge 'Route 66' sign on its walls, was illuminated by lights for passing tourists to see.

The parking lot had a decent scattering of cars, minivans, and semi-trucks. Checking the time on the dashboard, it was almost eight. People around for dinner. Witnesses. Actually, I didn't want witnesses because I wanted to smear the frat boys on the pavement. But we couldn't have everything we wanted in this world.

"That felt way longer than ten minutes," I said.

"But we're finally here." Deen's frown couldn't diminish her beauty.

"We'll see if the uncouth men following us will try anything now."

"Uncouth? You sound like you're in a period drama."

"I don't know about period drama—I've never tried watching any. But we're about to be in an action movie. Hold on, Erind. You're going to love this." Deen didn't slow down as we neared the exit ramp. She didn't even use her turn signals, the blonde traffic violator. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. Without warning, she threw the car into a sharp turn. Muffled squealing of tires. We drifted onto the exit ramp.

Behind us, the Douche Mobile honked in frustration as they shot past us. Skidding noises. High beams flailed. Horns from cars in the opposite lane, protesting the Douche Mobile's maneuvers.

"They're turning around to follow us," I said, checking behind us. Too bad none of the frat boys fell off when the pickup truck U-turned.

"Also, nice work, Deen. That was awesome. Definitely action movie material." Deen laughed, probably exhilarated by what she just did.

"I'm not just a leading lady, you know. I can do my own stunts." We pulled into the brightly lit parking lot of Barstow Station. Deen, ever the parking expert, slid our car into the open spot beneath a tall security light. This was a skill I'd never learn, and I refuse to try learning.

"Don't forget the laptop and your gloves," Deen said.

"Yes, Mom." I pulled the fingerless glove down my right hand—Deen's very thoughtful gift. Spreading my hand, I stare at the yellow and black stripes. Deen explained that the glove's design looked like a bee because I liked sweet things. I liked her logic. Made of stretchy cotton, the glove was supposed to be a stylish way to cover my hand. Not sure about fashion, but it was comfy as a soft sweater. We got out and briskly walked to the door. I adjusted the bag's strap over my shoulder.

Roaring engines heralded the arrival of the Douche Mobile. Instead of parking, the pickup truck charged towards us! The frat boys wanted to cut us off from the entrance! Deen hugged my waist, lifting me off the ground and jumping out of the way. The Douche Mobile stopped mere feet from the glass door. A family was exiting Barstow Station. The father shouted at the frat boys, while the mother shielded their children. Blaring rap music drowned the father's complaints.

"Scumbags," Deen mumbled under her breathe.

"You can put me down now." I wiggled my dangling feet to find the ground. Full-on body contact with Deen. Took monumental will to stop myself from elbowing her stomach. Her stupid Guardian Angel would save her anyway. Deen unwrapped her arms around my waist, dropping me to the ground. She grabbed my shoulders and tried to steady me, even though I was already standing straight. I thought the torture was over, but she held my right hand, as if I were a kid to be dragged away from danger.

The amount of physical contact in a short span of time shocked me so much that I wasn't able to immediately push her away. But Deen's touching wasn't the biggest annoyance around. The frat boys jumped off the Douche Mobile's back, beer cans in hand. The one with the pathetic goatee stumbled to the ground while his fellows laughed.

"Help me up!" Goatee Guy shouted with slurred words. The youngest frat boy—he might be the one connected to the mayor and the president—came to help. Goatee Guy waved his can at us.

"Hey, Blondie! You think you can just ignore. Let's have a chat!" If I were Red Hood, these frat boys wouldn't want to chat. I could eat their entrails like gummy worms. On second thought, I shouldn't eat disgusting trash. Deen held my right hand so tight that my crystals dug into her palm.

"Don't you dare transform."

"What? I wasn't thinking about that," I hissed back. Was she guessing? Or was I transmitting emotions through our Core? This Core should be removed from my body if only for that reason.

"Wait. This will be handled soon." Incoming red and blue lights rivalled the signage of Barstow Station. A gray SUV tore through the parking lot, its siren giving a short, authoritative bark. It halted beside us, displaying the unmistakable emblem of the California Highway Patrol on its door. Khaki Cop to the rescue? The frat boys froze, their addled brains processing what was happening. Then they remembered that they were dicks who didn't care about authority.

They resumed shouting at Deen, ambling towards us like zombies. Khaki Cop stepped out of his vehicle, hand resting near his holster. I super doubted that he was on duty. He wouldn't follow us everywhere if he were.

"Stay where you are, boys," Khaki Cop boomed. Swaggering forward, he didn't glance at Deen or me.

"We can't have you disturbing the peace of Barstow." A scrawny prick, sporting a my-dad-is-a-lawyer polo shirt and loafers, held his hands up. A practiced, wealthy smirk was on his face.

"Officer, hang on a bit. We know these girls. We're all from La Esperanza. This is just—""I don't care if this is an emotional reunion," Khaki Cop interjected.

"I've been watching you for the last five miles. Reckless driving, driving under the influence, public harassment. Line up against the truck. Now." The frat boys loudly protested, throwing out family names and political connections. Khaki Cop was entirely unmoved. If someone found out he was a PCM member, demotion was the least of his worries. He glanced at us and tilted his head toward the doors, assuming that our 'hacker friend' was inside.

"Let's go," Deen whispered, pulling me long.

"While they're busy." As we walked past the Douche Mobile, the passenger's window rolled down, revealing a buff dude with a skull tattoo on his shoulder. He pointed his phone's camera at Deen.

"Lookie here, Blondie! Give me a pretty pose!"

"Enough of that!" Khaki Cop knocked on the truck's door.

"Out of the truck!" Deen and I rushed inside Barstow Station, weaving through the growing number of onlookers. The glass doors swung shut behind us, deadening the obnoxious beats of the Douche Mobile's speakers outside. Flashing red and blue lights danced near the entrance. Industrial air conditioning hit us with an uncomfortable cold gust, contrasting the dry air outside. The interior was a sprawling complex not apparent from its exterior. One side had a grocery store.

The other part had rows of plastic booths and food stalls winding past old train cars turned into novelty dining areas. I really liked the theming. Nothing special, but it had the inviting feel of diners. And was that a diner over there?

"He can't keep them for long," Deen said.

"His PCM duties are his priorities. He won't waste his time booking them, or explaining to other cops why he's here in the first place."

"But I think he'll shoo the frat boys away," I said.

"He wouldn't want anyone interfering with our little transaction here to get the files."

"Let's hurry to the—""Better idea," I cut in.

"Let's have dinner first. See how things go and plan stuff." A smattering of people, from large families to lone truck drivers, wandered Barstow Station. Some people took pictures, others bought souvenirs. Most just wanted food, be it lining up at the McDowell's counters or sitting down at a small side diner for a waitress to take their orders. It was beautifully, wonderfully mundane, the perfect setup for a violent twist later.

"Want to try actual diner food?" I suggested.

"I'm kind of hungry after… all we've experienced."

"Erind, we have less than two hours before Cecilia's flash-drive soul is gone forever." Deen kept her voice low, guiding me toward the path USB Cecilia had told us about. I stood still, unbudging despite Deen's yanking.

"Being prudent, we must assume the PCM has at least one other person tailing us. We eat and pretend this isn't the meeting place with our 'hacker friend'. We'll observe anyone suspiciously hovering nearby." The truth was that I just wanted to eat. I spotted the diner's menu on their glass wall, and wanted to try some items.

"Not only that," I continued.

"We also have to plan what we'll do with Cecilia. Like, she transfers to her new body. And then…?"

"You're right," Deen said.

"We'll look very conspicuous bringing her body back to the car. We can't leave her inside her lab either."

"We can even use this as an excuse that our hacker friend didn't come or something. What will Auron do then? Order the PCM member cop to threaten us with a gun?"

"That's enough, Erind." Deen reached out and pinched my nose.

"I know you're trying your darndest to justify eating here. We'll do that if you want. You're also right that we need to think more about our situation."